Echoes in Asphalt

Dust motes dance.
A city's breath, cool on skin.
The chipped brick remembers touch – echoes of hands long gone, a ghost of warmth against the cold stone.
He found me here. A flicker in the grey.
Not with grand gestures, but quiet coffee offered, a shared silence that spoke volumes louder than any promise.
A slow thaw. Ice cracking on forgotten things.
The weight of unspoken words, a fragile offering – too precious to shatter, yet aching to be known.
His gaze lingers - a question, an invitation…
And in the heart of concrete and steel, a strange bloom.

Editor: The Nameless Poet